


Storm clouds concealing the light

by cytryne



Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Depression, Don't copy to another site, Gen, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mind Control, Oath of Fëanor, exploratory, feanor should have worded his oath better, it has unintended consequences, the Oath is vaguely anthropomorphized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cytryne/pseuds/cytryne
Summary: Don’t go swearing an Oath without setting all the parameters first. They’re tricky like that.Inspired by a conversation on my tumblr. Written for badthingshappenbingo. Prompt: Fighting on the Inside





	Storm clouds concealing the light

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, the mention of “Feanor’s kin” in the Oath of Feanor was not a very smart idea for an Oath of that magnitude. Others take advantage. TWs: mind control, bad choices, depression, suicide

Celebrimbor had lived around the Oath for most of his life. He could barely remember a time before it, at this point. His father had felt the effects the earliest and strongest of all the Oath-takers, but they all showed it in their own ways. Maedhros and Maglor had the most control over it. They had to have, in order to survive so long when all were out of reach. But it ruined Maedhros. His uncle had struggled constantly with what was real and what wasn’t after the torture, after months and years of being tainted by the proximity to the gems he had sworn to regain but was unable to touch. But he pulled it together afterwards. Not well, but well enough. He could reason without thinking about it, act outside of its directive, no matter how hungry the Oath grew in their minds. He was the source of most alternative attempts that still searched for the Silmarilli but without the side effects of the rasher, more tempting suggestions. He’d also always failed to hide the effects unlike the rest. 

Maglor was different, yet similar in most ways. When he was younger, Celebrimbor would have considered his relationship with the Oath what Maedhros’s would have been without his captivity. He definitely had the most control. That control never weakened, even as the Oath aged. He knew how the Oath worked, and he knew how to persuade it to support his choices in such a way that no one could claim he wasn’t following the Oath but it didn’t impair his judgement unless he wanted it to. Maglor was terrifying with the Oath. He was terrifying before it, but it enhanced him. No one wanted to be his enemy.

Celegorm had the second most tenuous control of the Oath. It tended to win over his own wants. The Oath was what suggested most of his more questionable acts, especially regarding Luthien and the Second Kinslaying. Without it, Celegorm was more rational. He was a good planner. He knew how people and animals worked and enjoyed it without manipulating it. He could be at peace at time. But the Oath made it harder for him to stay still, harder for him to do anything but try and try and try to fulfill it constantly. The quickest solution was always the one he took. It hurt, to watch his closest uncle lose his peace to the demon that he had encouraged to wrap itself around his spirit. 

The Oath and Caranthir acted similarly to the Oath and his father, only his uncle could direct it. It fed on his wants. His restraint was there, but Caranthir ever wanted more and followed his wants. Celebrimbor didn’t know how he managed to direct it, to avoid having to constantly go after the Silmarilli in some form yet remain himself, but Caranthir had managed it. Instead he collected, and hated, and loved with abandon. Everything could have conceivably have been for their cause, to allow them to peruse the Silmarilli with more funds and more friends, but those who were close to him knew. They knew. No matter how he disguised it, Caranthir acted because he wanted and not because he schemed. He was honest like that. It was also what gave the Oath its power over him.

His father—oh, Curufinwe Curufinwion was the worst of them all. Celebrimbor could barely remember how he was before the Oath, but the Oath ruined his control over himself. He would never hurt or criticize his son, but anyone who got in his way was treated cruelly, instead of simply removed. The Oath encouraged the worst parts of him. Any and all control he had once had was eroded away by the week, until he followed his impulses whenever the Oath encouraged it and took little care to the wholeness of those left behind unless they were his close family. Even then, his brothers received harsher and harsher words every year. It was the hardest to watch. 

Ambarussa . . . Ambarussa had been quiet. The Oath shone in their dedication, in their refusal to move to anything else, in their obsession. It didn’t inspire or direct them to anything in particular, but they always did what it told them to. Their age must have played a factor, Celebrimbor knew later, and their permanent dedication to his grandmother. They wanted nothing more than to regain the Silmarilli and return home, and to that the Oath encouraged them. Whatever price necessary. 

Watching them die as a result of the Oath hurt, but it was a release. It would not burden them any longer, even as the effects worsened on those who yet lived. 

Maglor was the last.

Celebrimbor knew the very instant his last uncle died. He knew, because he was not alone any more. Twisting, twirling around his mind were glimmers of red he could not escape nor push away, no matter how he tried. Osanwe, Song; they both failed. It was there to stay. And oh, but it sung! A haunting tune, yet beguiling in the same instant. It drew him near, it wanted to accompany him, to please him, and yet—and yet—it stung, and ordered, and he could not argue with it. Not truly. He could push it away, with great effort, and think on something else, but it remained as loud as ever. Background lyrics set to the pounding of his heart.

Annatar was near when it happened, and he gasped. His hands twisted in the Maia’s robes to try desperately to stay upright, and in the background he knew his friend was supporting and questioning him as to what was wrong, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t think. The world seemed fake. His eyes were open yet everything was dull, fuzzy, and he—shoved his new understanding at Annatar, hoping he would understand without words. Opening his mouth felt like an impassable task. 

He did.

Annatar understood perfectly.

Celebrimbor didn’t remember anything clearly for . . . he couldn’t say how long, just the cloudiness as he struggled through a fog highlighted in red to reach the surface, and a dark spot off to the side. What they were, he couldn’t tell, but when he registered the world again, he knew one thing. One, impossible, yet oh so real thing.

He had to follow the Oath. 

He had inherited this Oath, and he was alone in the world and had to figure out how to follow it. He had no choice. The full force of an Oath left unfulfilled for Ages hit him, and he had to follow it no matter how he felt. He had no power in it. The Silmarilli had to be reclaimed, and all those who kept them from him punished. 

Distantly, Celebrimbor felt himself explain this to Annatar. He could barely connect those actions and himself, but it didn’t seem to matter. Somewhere, he knew Annatar could help with this—Annatar, his friend. Annatar, a Maia. Annatar, a concept the Oath recognized—and he was fulfilling the impulse to get help. Without conscious decision. It was terrifying. 

The Maia agreed, the twist of his smile more felt than seen.

Celebrimbor . . . Celebrimbor had more control after that. He could choose how and what to make, and live his life while doing so without much forcing him to. The Oath lurked, its sole directive not allowing him to inform anyone beyond Annatar that he had inherited its price. It was fine. He felt like himself. He got to make something that had been bouncing around his head for weeks, and in the end . . . they had Rings. 

The Oath practically purred when he first held his Three Rings. Celebrimbor knew it was pleased, which worried and pleased him equally. A momentarily content Oath was theoretically good for his sanity and sense of self, but it also meant it would demand more from him soon. The red would tighten again. It would be . . . a trap hidden as release, but one step closer to not having to listen to the Oath. With his Rings, with Annatar by his side, he could change the world and reclaim the Silmarilli once and for all.

It would be easy. Everything would be fixed.

At this point, Celebrimbor wasn’t sure if it was the Oath promising it or his own hopes.

The Oath has its targets. First, and foremost, was regaining Earendil’s Silmaril. Then, finding those in the sea and the ground. The Rings were made to mirror them—to affect the areas in which each Silmaril had ended up—so it wouldn’t be too hard once there was a distraction. Repercussions afterwards were not the Oath’s concern, though Celebrimbor tried to dwell on them every so often before it forced his attention away again. It also wanted to get revenge on those who had kept the Silmarilli away, but all were out of reach. No matter. There would be time later.

Celebrimbor just wanted to fix what had been wrought when Beleriand sunk. And to be free of the Oath, of course. Having his control of his own mind and body wrenched away was horrific, especially since it was hard to remember that he ought to mind. His father’s later years suddenly made a lot more sense. 

When Annatar made a Ring of his own, a One Ring, that could control the rest, Celebrimbor panicked, even as his body barely showed any signs of alarm. The fact that the Oath did not consider it a threat worried him beyond belief. Annatar was Sauron, Sauron had used him, but all his desire in the world to show something different, to speak up, to fight it, did nothing. The Oath was unconcerned, keeping him from noticing what was wrong through his haze until far too late, and, well, his Rings were hardly immune from the desire to listen to Sauron. He could only do so much from the small part of his fea that was not listening to one or the other.

His situation was . . . complex. Technically, he was in charge. It was him that felt completely devoted to Sauron, and him that wanted to follow the Oath above all else. They were still one person. But, he was also aware of it. It would’ve been nicer, Celebrimbor decided, if he weren’t. So much of him was wrapped up in the red of the Oath, and the cool collection of his Rings, that he had little will to function towards anything else. He could only register concern and anger and fear as his face remained smooth and he spoke soft words that remained in line with Sauron and his body and mind did what it was supposed to do according to the Oath. 

And oh, what terrible things it did. It was clear, how the Oath managed to think Sauron was not an enemy. He had never personally laid a hand on the Silmarilli, and, in the end, had much the same goals as the Oath. Returning to things what they believed the rightful place was. It hurt, to know his own desires helped fuel that. His own want for power to give security and a better land for his people was what bridged the gap between Sauron and the Oath’s objectives.

They tore up the land, ruined homes and livelihoods and families, only to find a Silmaril and set the land to rights. Celebrimbor regained a small sliver of himself from the Oath then, but was faced with nothing but devastation he had caused and orders to make it and the people who lived there as Sauron wished. They went to the sea next, causing tsunamis powerful enough to ruin Numenor and destroy much of the flora and fauna of the oceans in search for the Silmaril. Regaining this one, too, gave him some clarity back, only to watch as the remains of a ship bobbed past. He’d tried his hardest to limit the destruction, but all his fight had managed was the faint echo of Sauron’s amusement through the Rings and a shipwreck of drowned refugees. Drawing the pain of the dying out rather than granting them a quick death as their island went under in one moment as was intended.

That hurt, but even with all the pain and guilt he could barely make his eyes water with tears. Still, it was more than before. 

But not enough.

It would never be enough.

To bring Earendil out of the sky cost a truly ridiculous number of lives, and nearly broke Vilya, but it happened. Oh, it happened. Celebrimbor stepped through the remnants of the Vingilot, over Earendil’s broken—but alive—body, the Oath so focused on its goal finally within reach to care, and plucked the Silmaril from the ground. He lifted it high, glove protecting his hand, and—the red snapped. The Oath had finally been fulfilled.

He was the most free he’d been in years, and yet, he could feel the need to obey Sauron pulling on him. To do everything he wanted, asked for or not. His mind and impulses were screaming at him to give in, to behave, but Celebrimbor made one last effort. One thing left to do. 

It was an effort, his hand fighting with him every second and taking twice as much effort to do as it should, but he’d been fighting with the Oath as well for decades. He could do it, while Sauron was distracted by the win and wasn’t able to double the effort needed to suppress his final rebellion. 

Celebrimbor picked up his knife, hand shaking enough that he could barely hold on the entire time, and prepared himself.

Reaching the Halls was more than he thought he deserved. 

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, I set out to write a mild version of the same Celebrimbor-inherits-the-Oath plot. It failed. I’m sorry. I have around ten alternate possibilities of what could happen from an Oath that poorly yet comprehensively worded bouncing around my head right now. Don’t ask me about Oaths unless you want your ear talked off.
> 
> Alternately, if you want to hear a lot about how one misplaced word could mess up a lot in something of that magnitude, hit me up.


End file.
